192 



ing that, white -oak or post -oak will do ex- 

 cellently well. 



Through clays of splendid languor the 

 south wind blows on to dawns of mist, 

 wherein spectral trees weep slow tears. 

 Each grass-blade wears a diamond. Rab- 

 bits frisk and nibble in dew-dim clover. At 

 the far verge a red-bird, aperch on a tall, 

 swaying weed, swings and sings, and at last 

 flies away. Wood-doves, in clouds, hover 

 and settle in the corn-field. A flight of 

 larks preen their yellow breasts, and chatter 

 noisily in the big, bare sassafras that has 

 been a hedge-row landmark this many a 

 year. Out of the mist above comes the ap- 

 pealing cry of a young hawk. He is lost in 

 the world of vapor, and calls for his elders. 

 Something glimmers in the grass too ten- 

 derly yellow for the hue of decay. A dan- 

 delion, too impatient to await the spring, 

 has flung wide its unminted gold. That 

 means sunshine within the hour. The 

 flower never opens in face of persistent 

 clouds. Even now the ghostly glamour 

 fades, a ball of red fire swims overhead, the 

 low sky lifts, and an every-day world lies 

 smiling up to its maker and builder. 



